P s 

3537 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Chap......... Copyright J^o...... 

ShelCLyT^^ 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



CAMF f\m COTTAGE, 



rOEMS 



. . BY 



LTMflyS H. 5FR0ULL, 

Author op "hours at Home." 






hiOV 9 ^^^^ 



FRANKI^IN, OillO: 



^^^^ 



THE EDITOR PUBLISHING COMPANY, " " VV *^ 



"l«'\- 



^' 






.?Vn 



Copyrighted, 1896, 

BY 
I^YMAN H. SPROULL. 



PREFACE. 



nr^HERE are many kind, true and appreci- 
ative hearts in the camps and cottages 
of the Rockies, whose friendly faces brighten 
the rugged desolation of the mountain trail, 
the monotony of the secluded ranch, and 
the gloominess of the chambered mine. It is 
among these that the author lives and labors; 
it is in the daily lives of these that he sees 
the joys and sorrows which he vStrives to 
portray; and it is to these that he respectfully 
dedicates his book. 

E. H. S. 
Crippi<e Creek, Colo., July, 1896. 



CONTENTS. 



At the Mine, 


7 


The Playmates, 


• 9 


The Boy Brave, 


II 


In the Cabin, ..... 


. 12 


The Spider and the Bee, 


14 


At the Mouth of the Cation, 


. i6 


The Sculptor, 


17 


On the Peak, 


. 20 


A Ranchman's Troubles, 


21 


Before the Storm, .... 


. 22 


Struck for Cake, 


23 


In Camp, 


. 28 


The Morning Hour, .... 


30 


A Boy's Balloon, .... 


. 31 


A Pack of Winds, 


33 


Visiting, 


. 35 


In the Mood, ...... 


. 38 


A Domestic Storm, .... 


• 39 


Death of the Ivy, 


40 


After Sunset, 


. 42 


Mountain Daisies, 


43 


Reminiscences, 


. 44 


Finale, 


. 48 



CAMP AND COTTAGE. 



AT THE MINK. 

When the cold and piercing fingers 
Of the sunset points and lingers 
Thro' the sombre clumps of pinions 

That are scattered round the mine, 
I come up to watch the dying 
Of the wintry sunset, lying 
On the cold and snowy backbone 

Of the Continental line. 

There I see the broken edges 

Of the mountain chain which hedges 

The precipitous dominion 

Of that bright aerial bay; 
See the frowning night which arches 
O'er the spear-like points of torches 
Standing wake-like o'er the hidden 

Head of the departed day. 

(7) 



8 



Now the night is gently hov'ring 
Low and lower, softly cov'riug 
All the broken land in darkness, 

While its western wing is bright 
With the less'ning glow, which falters 
Faintly on the snowy altars 
Of the ranges, disappearing 

In the mystic hold of night. 

Here I tarry till the twilight 
Gathers on the arching sky-light. 
Hung with thin and vapory curtains 

Waving in the frosty dome; 
And the fairy hands have driven 
All the starry spikes in heaven, 
While the echoes thro' the mountains 

Tell my tired soul of home. 



6)\im 



[9 



THE PLAYMATES. 

Once some little sunbeams strayed 
To a nest, 
Where a downy fledgling gazed 
At the visitors, amazed 
At their softness as they played 
On the leafy twiglets woven 
Round her breast. 

And they chattered all together. 

All together, all together. 
In a wild and joyous ecstacy of fun; 

And the one loved the many. 
And the many praised the one; 
As the weather courts the feather. 

To uphold her 
In the beaming and esteeming 

Of the sun. 
There she flapped her tiny wings, 
lyist'ning to the many things 

Which they told her, 



10 



When 'twas even, still they tarried 
In their playmate's leafy bower; 
Some half covered and half buried 
In the shadows which were carried 

Onward by the passing hour; 
And they would not leave until 
From the distant sunset hill 
They were quickly called away 
By the day. 

Then they left their playmate hid 
Deep the rustling leaves amid, 
While a dream-like murmur lingered 

On her brain, 
Which resembled in its calling 
Much the elfin music, falling 
From the leafy organs fingered 

By the rain. 
But in whisp'ring their farewell 
To this little birdie belle, 
They told her they would come again, 
And come again they did. 



11 



THE BOY BRAVE. 

Bedecked in his bright eagle feather, 

Which waved o'er the brow of the brave, 
He emerged thro' the soft, hazy weather. 
And took to his boat on the wave; 
And paddled away — away — 
In the shade of the fast falling day, 
In the stern of his little canoe. 



The sunset grew softer and softer. 
And smiled on the watery scroll. 
I shaded my eyes and looked after 
This free, unapproachable soul; 

And I saw but a speck on the crest 
Of the lakelet afar to the west. 
Where he rowed in his little canoe. 



12 



IN THE CABIN. 

Night is stealing up the creeks, 
And his breath is cold and damp; 

Day is fading from the peaks — 
Shut the door and light the lamp. 

Let the pale and ghostly wane 
Of the moon adown the even, 

Glimmer on our door again 

With the straggling stars of heaven. 

Let the prowling wind arise 
With a shriek of wild appall, 

Till the frowning midnight skies 
Throw a darkness over all. 

Let the tumbling creeks fall down 
In the darkness and the gloom, 

With their echoing voices blown 
Through the caiion's rocky room. 



13 



Let that sad, prolonging howl 

Of a coyote vagabond 
Echo 'neath the heaven's scowl, 

Dying on the cliffs beyond. 

These will fill our hearts tonight 
With such wild enchanting dreams 

Of the mountains, while the light 
O'er each quiet sleeper streams. 




14 



THE SPIDER AND THE BEE. 

Now, here is a story — I heard it in camp — 
'Twas told by a jovial, meanderous scamp. 
And it may be all right, and it may be but boo^ 
But I'm half-way inclined to believe it is true. 

There once was a cowboy, A. Spider by name, 
Who made a good living by lassoing game; 
While not far away there roamed, fearless and 

free, 
A steer which the people had christened D. Bee. 

"Ho, ho!" shouted Spider; "a whopper, by 

Jim! 
I'll just have a hand-to-hand tussle with him! " 
So up to D. Bee, Spider went on a lope, 
Hopped off his bronco, with flexible rope, 
And threw it quite cunningly round D. Bee's ear, 
But got his foot in it much worse than the steer. 



15 



They both came together in battle array, 
And D. Bee proved the High-muck-a-muck of 

the day, 
For he stabbed him with something — he didn't 

know what, — 
But Spider climbed onto his pony and got ! 
Nor tarried henceforth on his side of the fence, 
And he hasn't done anything notable since. 




16 



AT THE MOUTH OF THE CANON. 

'Tis here the canon rears its gate, 

To wonder-lands of mj^stery ; 
'Tis here the hurried waters wait 
For rest from off their high estate, 
Ere journeying onward to the sea. 

The morning sun beams o'er the plains 

From broken cliff-lines in the east : 
Smiles o'er the scattered herds and flocks, 
And falling on these mossy rocks, 
lyooks up a yaw^ning gulf of mist. 



17 



THE SCUIvPTOR. 

From the marble depths of the Great Unknown, 

The quarry-men Hfted the pure white stone, 
Which a sculptor bought 
With his gold, and brought 

To a dingy shop, where he planned and 
wrought 

An image from it, unseen, alone. 

The curtains were drawn but the folks could 

hear 
A chip, chip, chip, that was near and clear ; 

And they said, "Oh, what 

Has the old man got 
Which keeps him so close to that dreary spot, 
With a world so bright and so sunny near?" 

But the curtains raised and the neighbors 

viewed 
The head and the shoulders, pure and nude, 

Of a maiden fair 

With her flowing hair. 



18 



Carved out from the stone with the greatest 

care, 
And they all exclaimed in a breath, "Who 

could?" 

They entered the shop where the old man sat 
As still as death in his old slouch hat, 

And asked, ' ' What face 

Have you sought to trace 
That beams so full of the love and grace 
Which we see outlined in the work of that?" 

The old man raised neither hand nor head, 
And gave no heed to the words they said ; 

And they touched his old 

Thin hand, so cold. 
Which the pitiful end of the sculptor told. 
And they started back, for the man was dead ! 

There looking down like a dreamy one, 

In the marble dust with the chippings strewn, 

He seemed to say. 

In a silent way, 
To a crumpled picture which near him lay, 
They will know you now by the work I've 
done. 



19 



She has long been gone — so the people say — 

And from early dawn to the close of day, 
This old man roved 
Through the world unloved, 

By the joys and the griefs of the world un- 
moved. 

With his mind on a face that had passed away. 

So the daughter's face, it was brought to light, 
By her father's hand, by her father's might ; 

But the old thin one 

That the work had done 
Was gone like the light of a day-spent sun, 
To sleep unseen thro' eternal night. 




20 



ON THE PEAK. 

The wintry sun hangs blear and low, 
And red the light is on the snow. 

I hear the whisp'ring winds go b}^ 
And mingle in the upper sky. 

Far, far below, the little town 
Darkens with night, descending down; 

While treetops still remain aglow 
With arrows glancing o'er the snow. 

Those granite needles, tipped with fire, 
Grow darker as the beams retire. 

The distant landscapes fade away, 
In beauty, with the dying day; 

Yet lingering, tremulous and weak. 
The last faint ray illumes the peak. 



21 

A RANCHMAN'S TROUBLES. 

That savage river on its way 

Has swiped the profits of my ranch, 
And soon along with other clay 

'Twill start the dread malarial stench. 
'Tis " robbing Peter to pay Paul," 

And these 'ere hills will peter out, 
If still continues constant fall 

Of hail, and rain, and water-spout. 

Last week's alfalfa blooms were fine ; 

But who could ever calculate 
That they'd be salted in the brine 

Of every whirlpool in the state ? 
And out from every canon wall — 

Now that the water's had its fun — 
Comes bears and bugaboos — beats all 

What man can see without a gun. 

My cow looks at me in despair 

And moans for more alfalfa hay — 
Her baby went to feed a bear, — 

Now what in conscience can I say ? 
For all on earth that's left us now 

Are those big rocks you see up there ; 
And they're no good for man or cow. 

And only kind o' forts for bear. 



22 

BEFORE THE STORM. 

From peak to peak the daylight dies ; ' 
From rock to rock the darkneSvS lies ; 
While on the hill a coyote's cries 
Are mingling with the wind, which sighs 
About his shaggy form. 

A miner on his homeward trail, 
Harks to the wind and coyote's wail, 
And glancing at the clouds which sail 
Above the snowy range so pale, 
He prophesies a storm. 

Oh, what a scene when day is dying. 
And night about the rocks is lying ; 
While on the hill the coyote's crying 
Is mingling with the wind's sad sighing. 
Desolate, forlorn ! 

A tired miner homeward trailing. 
Harks to the wind and coyote's wailing, 
And gazes at the snow-caps sailing 
Above the distant range, fast paling — 
Paling into storm. 



23 



STRUCK FOR CAKE. 

One day my playmate Jack and I, 
Upon a sloping hill hard by 
Our village home, with wagons new, 
Were rolling down with wild halloo, 
Directly past our neighbor's door, 
Where oft we'd dashed along before. 

Now Jack was on his downward ride. 
With dust-clouds rolling at his side. 
When veering from our usual course, 
He struck the doorstep with a force 
That spilt him out in dust and dirt. 
And scratched his face, but not to hurt. 

The inmates, startled by his cry. 
Came out with many a "dear!" and 

"my!" 
And brushed his clothes with kindly beat. 
And filled his hands with cookies sweet, 
Till Jack forgot his tumble down, 
And was the happiest boy in town. 



24 



Well now, thought I, if people like 
Such things as that, I'll make a strike; 
I'll hit that doorstep — have a fall — 
Set up a loud, heart-rending bawl, 
Until they come with "dears!" and 

"mys!" 
And dry the tears within my eyes. 
And set me straight upon my feet, 
And give me cake and cookies sweet, 
Until with goodies I'm supplied, 
And paid quite well for all I've cried. 

Well, after all my plans were laid, 
The boyish venture then I made. 
Down, down the dusty hill I dashed, 
Till on the street I fairly flashed. 
And aimed for our good neighbor's door, 
Where Jack had struck it rich before. 

I hit the doorstep, as I meant. 

And — as I didn't mean to — went 

Like lightning through the open door, 

Across the carpet on the floor ! 

A lady seated quietly, 

Who was not then expecting me, 

With brush in hand and many paints, 



25 



Was fixing land and sky with tints ; 

But hitting her in my advance 

I scattered easel, brush and paints. 

I know it was not fair at all 
That I should make her such a call ; 
But nothing different could I do, 
I'd started, and I must go through ; 
So dashing on I left her there, 
With colors scattered everywhere. 

On through the open parlor door. 

Into the kitchen with a roar, 

I bounded in a single breath. 

And scared the cook almost to death ! 

On through the kitchen door I shot 

To open air and garden lot. 

Where dowmward in my awful swoop, 

I keeled a latticed chicken coop, 

And in the shade of leafy trees, 

Capsized a hive of busy bees. 

The honey- workers filled the air, 
And laid their plans for open war ; 
Each sharped his rusty bayonet, 
And used it, too, you'd better bet ! 



26 



The chickens fled on every path 
To miss the bees' increasing wrath ; 
The cat, with tail erect from it, 
Scaled high the fence wath hiss and spit ; 

The strutting dove with loving coo, 
Postponed his song — abrubtl}^ too ; 
The vv^atch- dog's stern, demanding growl, 
Changed off into a dreadful howl ; 
A pig, receiving pointers too. 
From quarters which he little knew, 
Set up a squeal and danced a jig 
Becoming to a city pig ! 

Meanwhile the bees b}^ bush and tree, 
'Mong other things did not miss me ; 
Some downward flew my toes to seek, 
While others sailed to shoot m}^ cheek ; 
And one a-dashing wildly by 
Sat down to rest above my eye ; 
A dozen searched my back with care, 
And ten got tangled in my hair. 

The inmates gathered on the stoop. 
To gaze on boy and hive and coop, 
But as the bees spread out afar 
To find new enemies to war, 



27 



They soon retreated through the door, 
Where I could hear their shout and roar. 
My still increasing, wild boohoo, 
Brought out a hundred heads to view, 
As pushing through the storm of bees, 
But not by any slow degrees, 
I dashed away for heaven's sake 
And left without a blasted cake ! 




28 



IN CAMP. 

We are here tonight 

'Neath the canvas white, 
In the midst of these lonely hills ; 

Where the windy sigh 

Of the stormy sky, 
Our hearts with a sadness fills. 

The river moans 

O'er the tumbled stones. 
From the clefts of the canons torn 

By the hand of frost ; 

While the peaks are lost 
In the wings of a mountain storm. 

We can hear the pelt, 

On the canvas dealt, 
Of the snow and the driven sleet ; 

While our fancies rove 

To the homes we love, 
And the ones that we f^in would meet. 



29 



Here under the roof 

Of our water-proof, 
We may dream of the valley land ; 

Of the garden fair, 

And the cottage there, 
And the touch of a loved one's hand. 

We may dream tonight 

Of the nursery light, 
And the ones we would die to save ; 

Of the prayer said 

By the baby's bed, 
And the kiss which the mother gave ; 

We may dream tonight 

Of the cottage light, 
Forgetting the dark and cold 

Of the present place ; 

And our eager race 
Thro' these lonely lands for gold. 



30 



THE MORNING HOUR. 

When the morning steals to the kingl}^ tower, 
The bell in the belfry proclaims the hour. 

When it brushes the tips of the songsters' wings, 
He opens his eyes to the day and sings. 

When it reaches the peaks of the mountains 

high. 
They smile in the light of the morning sky. 

When it kisses the flower, so fair, so bright, 
She bows her head to the welcome light. 

When it falls on the lakelet far away. 
It sparkles and sparkles, and all is day. 



31 

A BOY'S BALIvOON. 

With hammer, hatchet, saw, and nails, 

I worked, through all the noon. 
With strings and wings like flapping sails, 

To make a 7'eal balloon. 
My mother watched and smiled at how 

I worked beneath the sun; 
But she has ceased her smiling now 

At what the thi7ig has done. 

The bed-time came; I went to rest; 

But through the window soon 
I saw outlined against the west 

My little white balloon; 
And running to the window-sill, 

I leaned far out in glee, 
While through the ev'ning air so still 

It floated up to me. 

Then in its little basket frail 

I clambered witli a shout, 
And gaily hoisting up my sail, 

I through the blue struck out. 
Above the trees, the evening breeze, 

Above the cloudy bars, 
I traveled with the greatest ease 

To seek the lovely stars. 



32 



The moon hung o'er a silvery cloud 

That barred the east afar, 
While in its cup-like concave proud 

There blazed a little star; 
And higher, higher in the blue, 

Enriched by starry bowers, 
I quickly passed away from view 

Of this wee world of ours. 

Beneath the arch of milky-way 

I soared to higher skies. 
As if I neared the brilliant day 

Of some sweet paradise. 
A wind stirred with the coming light, 

And I was tossed about, 
Till all at once, — ah, dreadful plight! 

My strings and wings gave out! 

Down through the boundless blue I went, 

Through clustering stars I tore, 
Till earth's low-floating clouds I rent, 

And landed — 07i the floor! 
And looking round with startled stare 

And bumped, bewildered head, 
I found myself within a square 

Of sunshine by my bed. 



33 



A PACK OF WINDS. 

Now in and out at the open door 

They stray and play 
At their own sweet will; 
I hear them now on tlie cabin floor, 

And now on the brow 
Of the rocky hill. 

They fl}^ to the caiions deep and lone, 

And frisk and whisk 
On the cold rocks there; 
And then depart with a sweeping tone, 
And wail and trail 
Thro' the pinon's hair. 

They go to the caves in the granite cliff. 

And creep on the sleep 
Of the darkness there; 
Then leave with a growl and an angry sniff, 
And stray away 
In the evening air. 



34 



They scud to the peaks where the snow Hes cold 
And white and bright 
In the sunset's ray; 
And there they chant on the summit bold, 
And grieve thro' eve 
For the dying day. 

And then in the morning, soft and still, 
They lie and sigh 
On the cabin floor; 
Then in and out at their own sweet will, 
They stray and play 
Thro' the open door. 




35 



VISITING. 

I am here a-visiting, 

Visiting, visiting, 
Guest of sweet and smiling Spring. 
O'er the field and thro' the grove. 
By the brooklet and the cove, 
On the mountain's woody steep 
Where the lovely daisies peep; 
In the garden, thro' the corn. 
You cau hear me in the morn 
When I perch myself to sing; 

Visiting, visiting. 

What will I do when the snows 
And the savage norther blows? 

Hurricane, hurricane! 
I will fly away to where 
All is summer in the air, 

Visiting, visiting. 
Thro' the bush and on the wing. 
Where the cold and icy rain 
And the maddened hurricane 
Can not reach me while I sing; 

Visiting, visiting. 



36 



MORNING. 

The east is faintly smiling 

With morn's approaching light, 
While gliding through 
Its banks of dew, 
The brooklet sings of night. 

Behold ! on yonder mountain, 
MajevStic, cold and lone, 

A rosy red 

Has tipped the head 
Of that aerial cone; 

And while we view its splendor, 
The lower ranges greet 

The morning light; 

While dying night 
lyies silent at their feet. 

Now on the rocky upland 
We catch the morning beam; 



37 

Now, lower still, 
Upon the hill 
And on the rippling stream. 

The daisy heads are peeping 
From out each leafy awning; 
And gliding through 
Its banks of dew 
The brooklet sings of morning. 




38 



IN THE MOOD. 

It is summer in the mountains, 

And the sun is on the trees, 
And the breezes softly whisper 

To the columbines — yet these, 
So inviting to the senses, 

Can not check the gloomy tread 
Of my fancies thro' the winter 

Of a land that's cold and dead. 

It is winter in the mountains, 

And the snow is on the peaks; 
And the wind about the cafions 

And the caverns raves and shrieks; 
Yet my heart knows no misgiving. 

And m}^ fancies linger sweet 
In a land of smiling summer. 

With the flowers at their feet. 



39 



A DOMESTIC STORM. 

He did not mean to be so rough; 

She did not mean the words she said; 
But as it was, 'twas just enougli 

To turn domestic heavens red, 
And raise a whirlwind in the sky. 

Which ruffled their tranquihty. 

Oh, when the sea of hfe is dark, 
And waves begin to surge and roll. 

In what safe ship may we embark 
To reconcile the troubled soul ? 

Kind words, my friends, will often warm 
A heart enveloped in a storm. 

He knew her blustering would but last 
Just long enough to clear the sky; 

And when the storm of tears was past 
He saw a rainbow in her eye. 

With glinting sunshine on her brow, 
And both are very happy now. 



40 



DEATH OF THE IVY. 

Oh mother, look here, all the ivy is dead, 
And the snow and the frost they are spoiling 

its bed ! 
It looks, oh, so barren, so cold and so sad. 
When the bloom of the ivy is gone. 

lyast night in my bed, I was thinking of when 
It would bloom in the smile of the summer 

again; 
Refreshed b}^ the breezes, the sweet summer 

rain, 
And the smile of the heavenly sun. 

But now when I look on the wreck of the vines 
Which are tossed by the knavish and snow- 
laden winds, 
I feel, oh, so sad, and my heart it repines 
To know that the ivy is gone. 



41 



Dear daughter, look there at that thin snowy 

hair, 
Which time has so frosted with trouble and care; 
What soul would not sink to the depth of despair 
When the bloom of life's mission is gone? 

Last night I was thinking how we, at our play 
In the days of our childhood, so happy and gay, 
Would build airy castles, a glitt'ring array, 
And talk of the work to be done. 

But now when I look on those hopes which are 

wrecked 
By the winters of trouble, the frosts of neglect, 
It makes my heart sad to sit down and reflect. 
And know that life's mission is gone. 




42 



AFTER SUNSET. 

The sunset light is crowning, 

Faintly crowning, 
, The mountains in the west; 

And the stars upon the breast 
Of the east are growing lighter. 
Growing thicker, growing brighter, 
As the frowning 
Of the night, 
Trailing on the dying light. 
Drives the sunlight, cold and gray. 
From the snowy peaks away. 



43 



MOUNTAIN DAISIES. 

I find them just below the hight, 

Where in the breeze 

The aspen trees 
Cast sweet their checkered shade and light 
Upon them list'ning to the bees. 

There scattered thro' the waving grass, 

With dewy spreads 

Upon their beds, 
The3^ watch me as I come and pass, 

With their sweet, clean, uplifted heads. 

Here in this lonel}^ mountain nook, 
With sun-kissed ears 
And dewy tears, 
I love their quaint, inquiring look — 
A perfect little herd of dears. 



44 



REMINISCENCES. 

How .sweet the day 

Which childhood knew, 

When every way 

We wandered through 
Led us to some enchanting view! 

When every morn 

Was welcomed o'er 
The bending corn, 
And thro' the door 
Of childhood's happy home of yore. 

When the advance 

Of night was met 
Without a sense 

Of some regret 
To linger when the sun was set. 

Now as a dream 

Unharassed, free. 
Each happy scene 

Comes back to me 
Along the aisles of memory. 

The twilight skies, 
All overcast 



45 



With starry eyes, 
While in the west 
The moon hung o'er the hilly crest. 

The rainbow — set 

By ev'ning's hand 
Upon the wet 

Cold cloud — which spanned 
The rain-swept hills of prairie land. 

The foggy morns 

Which closed around 
The stacks and barns 
And garden ground, 
And wept o'er every grassy mound. 

The vicious hawks 

That soared and squealed 
O'er harvest shocks 
Which lined the field. 
Where "cluckie" with her brood concealed. 

The whip-poor-will's 
Sweet, plaintive note, 

Which set the hills 
And dales afloat 
With echoes, lonely and remote. 



46 



The prairie groves, 

With hazels green, 
Which Hned the coves 

And each ravine 
Where hiding brooks and pools were seen. 

The tall, green trees, 

Which waving free 
Within the breeze. 

Majestic' ly 

lyooked o'er the rolling prairie sea. 

Now all are gone, 

Those happy scenes; 
Yet sweet upon 

My mind convenes 
The memories of those hills and streams. 

Our mother's voice 

At eventide. 
When calling us 

From meadows wide, 
To gather at the fireside. 

The fire-flies bright. 

Fantastic gleam, 
Throughout the night, 
Above the stream, 
As evanescent as a dream. 



47 



The reapers' song 

In fields afar, 
Which all day long, 

With rhythmic jar 
And pulsing music, filled the air. 

The clearing wide, 

Where oft we'd stray 
To romp and hide 
In boyish play, 
Thro' all the long and sunny day. 

The sumach tents 

We built about 
The shady fence, 

Where in and out, 
We bravely played the Indian scout. 

The fires we made, 

Whose dingy smoke 
Mixed with the shade 
Of spreading oak, 
And o'er our leafy wigwams broke, 

And filled our heads 
With dreams as fair 



48 

As when the Reds 
Were camping there, 
Engulfed within the hazy air. 

Now all are gone, 

Those happy scenes. 
Yet sweet upon 
M}^ mind convenes 
Those tender reminiscent dreams. 



FINALE. 



Farewell, friends, but not forever; 

We will wander once again 
By the rapid rolling river; 

In the quiet of the glen. 

O'er the mountains and the meadows, 
In the morning's early beam; 

Thro' the silence of the shadows. 
At the sunset's parting gleam. 

Thro' the streets and in the the alleys; 

On the prairie and the plain: 
Thro' the groves and thro' the valleys, 

We will wander once again. 



